Distant Shores - Marco Palmieri [125]
While I continued to call for help from more official sources-where were the police in this city, anyway?- I asked his name. Darek. His name was Darek Rez.
Darek had lost a considerable amount of blood, but somehow remained conscious. I suspect the typically lower blood pressure of the Tahal-Isut had something to do with this. I placed his hands over the wound, instructing him to keep an even pressure on it while I ran back to try to get help.
He was an excellent student.
I considered moving him to the end of the alley, but concluded that this might cause the bleeding to increase. Without being able to use my usual diagnostic tools, it was difficult to get a good idea of how injured Darek truly was. Therefore, I chose the more cautious route. That was when we began talking. It kept him conscious, and it allowed me to find out more about the extent of his injuries.
I’ve also discovered something. I’ve grown far too accustomed to working with tricorders, scanners, and sensors. The idea of doctors working without such tools is… well, I might as well be working with my eyes and hands deleted. I wasn’t sure what to expect from the current standard of medicine, but from what I’d been able to study of Tahal-Isut medical technology to that point, I didn’t even expect something of the oh-so-high standards of Klingon medicine. But I’m digressing again.
Between us, Darek and I managed to keep enough pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding to what I thought was a safe point. Of course, that was the time a police officer finally arrived. While we waited on a transport to take Darek to the hospital, I gave the constable the best possible description of the two attackers. The only detail I couldn’t give him was the name of each culprit.
When the ambulance finally arrived-ambulance, hmph, try six wheels and a small, rather low-powered engine attached to the loudest siren ever created by a living creature-I explained that I was a doctor and asked if I could ride with them to the hospital. Mr. Paris was a more gracious medic six years ago than those two technicians could ever aspire, but they finally allowed me to accompany them.
While I was riding in the transport with Darek, he did something that I did not anticipate. He offered me a place to live to thank me for saving his life. I believe the phrase is “never look a gift horse in the mouth.” As I had been planning to look for living quarters once I managed to find a way to pay for them, I accepted the offer. Darek is something of a real estate entrepreneur. He owns several apartment buildings throughout the capital city, and in his gratitude he offered me a dwelling in one of his more lavish buildings.
At least, this was his claim. I’ll find out how truthful it is when he’s discharged and able to escort me to the building himself.
As for the interview-my first, I might add-it went well. The chief of staff is a small, older woman. I’d estimate she’s in her mid-sixties. She has short, dark red hair and a perpetual scowl. She introduced herself as Dr. Senni Ruaal, and she was very impressed with my work. She studied what I’d done with Darek, and-not surprisingly, I might add-approved of my course of treatment. Before I could leave the hospital, she offered me a job.
If I choose to accept the offer, I’m to report for duty tomorrow evening. If I do not arrive on time, I’ll have to find other means of obtaining a believable way to “hide out” while I’m on the surface. I can’t deny the convenience of the situation, even though it puts me in a position that’s directly in conflict with my base programming. I’m a doctor, not a secret agent. Is it possible for me to uphold both the Hippocratic oath and the Prime Directive in this instance?
However, while they do not know who or what I am, by offering me this job, have they not effectively asked for my help? If I can render that assistance, without making who or what I am known, would it be different than when the Enterprise assisted